The winter beach. She chose solitude. He chose differently, for both of them. Forty-three years old, marriage over, Miller had to remove herself from the disaster that was her life. Her family's hundred-year-old summer house on the far northern coast offered the solitude she needed. She would read non-improving books, watch the enormous pile of DVDs friends had given her and walk the cold winter beach for miles. In order to follow the rules for living in the moment, she would also observe, inspect and identify whatever came to hand. His name was Eli and it seemed he was also fleeing the disaster that had been his life. He was young, or younger anyway. He had rented one of the nearby condos for the winter--he dug the number out of his black leather jacket and offered it to her as a friendly means of introduction. His back had gone out and he was done with cross-country trips on motorcycles. Welcome to Oregon, she said, and smiled, an unfamiliar gesture. They spent time together and became friends. Good friends. Then even better friends. Misery loved company, she told herself. It was just because he was easy to be around, she told herself. Don't think about it, she told herself. He was something she hadn't counted on. At all.
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